


becoming air again

by getmean



Series: sledgefu week 2019 [5]
Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), DIY like Literal Fix It, Established Relationship, Fluff, Introspection/Meditations on the past and on war, M/M, New Beginnings, Post-Canon Fix-It, yes that means old man sledgefu u are all welcome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 05:26:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18793909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getmean/pseuds/getmean
Summary: They had moved into their very first home together a week ago, and Eugene already feels like he’s had enough stress in that time than he had experienced in the whole four years he was in the Marines. It’s an exaggeration, but distance from an event is a hell of a drug.





	becoming air again

**Author's Note:**

> written for the seventh and final day of sledgefu week: the fix it prompt!

“Where’s the clothes box?” Eugene yells, voice echoing up through the near-empty house as he shifts frantically through the cardboard box in front of him. Silence answers him as he pulls towel wrapped dishes from the box, increasingly desperate. “Merriell!” He calls, hoping using Snafu’s given name will communicate just how much trouble he’ll be in if he feigns deafness again. 

“By the stairs!” Snafu calls back from the other room, and Eugene hears the sound of the fridge opening, the clank of the beer bottles in the door. “Gene, we got any ham?”

“If it ain’t in the fridge we don’t have it.” He replies, before giving up on the box in front of him, pushing it back into place with his foot before stalking through to the kitchen. He finds Shelton there, already dressed for work, making a sloppy sandwich right on the kitchen counter. 

They meet each other’s eyes, and before Eugene can say a word Snafu interjects with, “I couldn’t find the cutting boards.”

“I need a tie.” Eugene counters with, clutching his keys and his wallet in one hand, his briefcase in the other. Snafu’s eyes narrow before he turns back to his sandwich, humming thoughtfully. “I’m going to be late for work.” Eugene prompts, teeth gritted as he watches Snafu reach into the bag for another slice of bread. 

“Well ties ain’t in the clothes boxes.” He murmurs, voice lacking the absolute sense of urgency that Eugene is sure he’s transmitting like a beacon right now. He checks his watch, and turns away with a groan, back to the pile of boxes clustered around the staircase, ready to be shifted upstairs. “Try all the the misc boxes.” He says, and then pauses, and adds, “Or go without. It’s July, Gene.” 

“Some of us have to look professional.” Eugene snipes, more out of misplaced frustration than any annoyance towards Snafu. “I have a big meeting today.” He tears open a box labelled _misc._ in Snafu’s messy scrawl, cursing himself for not getting more unpacked over the weekend. 

“Ain’t gonna wear a tie to fix some bastard’s radiator.” Snafu says, blandly, and rustles at the bread bag again. 

They had moved into their very first home together a week ago, and Eugene already feels like he’s had enough stress in that time than he had experienced in the whole four years he was in the Marines. It’s an exaggeration, but distance from an event is a hell of a drug, and at least in war it was easy; everything planned out for you. You had the clothes on your back, one set of orders for the day. Now every item Eugene owns is strewn throughout the house in a myriad of boxes, victim to Snafu’s disorganised and _creative_ method of packing. He’s been turning up plates in the bedroom box, knick knacks where there should be none. Packing up Snafu’s magpie’s nest of an apartment had been something, but unpacking it is a task all to itself, which is why they had both been slacking on it. The house was a fixer-upper, to some extent; creaky and old in places, functionally broken in others. It meant they had both been too invested in making the place _liveable_ to really unpack anything besides the bare essentials. And that leaves Eugene digging for a tie at the exact moment he’s supposed to be on the tram to work, growing increasingly more frustrated as his search turns up nothing even resembling a tie.

“We’re unpacking all this shit this week.” He mutters to Snafu, who has come to watch him search, sandwich in hand. He looks tired, eyes puffy and half asleep, hair wild from the humidity in the house. Eugene can feel himself sweating through his shirt, and knows Snafu can’t be faring much better in the heavy boiler suit he wears to work most days. He flaps his hand at him, distracted, “Snaf, it’s fine. Go to work, I’ll find something.”

Snafu bends down to drop a kiss on Eugene’s cheek, and he’s so consumed in search of a tie that he barely reacts, patting Snafu’s cheek before he draws away. “Love you.” Snafu murmurs, smoothing Eugene’s hair at the crown of his head. “Try the box under the bathroom one.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Eugene mutters, ignoring Snafu’s snort as he moves away. He hears the jangling of keys, and barely has time to throw over his shoulder, “Love you too!” The front door shuts, and Eugene hefts the other box closer to him, cursing the chaos that is his life right now. His back twinges with the movement, reminding him that thirty-six is really pushing it to be sleeping on a mattress on the floor, and mentally he adds _buy a bed frame_ to the list in his head as he pulls a tie triumphantly from the box between his knees. 

With barely a minute to spare, Eugene knots the tie around his neck as he gathers himself together, pausing in front of the hall mirror to grimace at himself as he pulls his shoes on. He feels grubby from sweating all over the house all weekend, but something is broken and the water pressure is too low for a shower so he supposes the faculty at the college he teaches at will just have to settle with it. He scrubs at a streak of paint on his neck that Snafu had so helpfully not pointed out to him, and then he’s out the front door and into the blazing heat of a July morning in Louisiana. 

The tram is running predictably late, so Eugene manages to cram himself in with the rest of the commuter crowd despite his frantic, late start to the morning. It’s hot inside despite the windows being open; Eugene hangs grimly onto the handrail above him and tries his very best to angle his face towards the slight breeze through the open windows. He and Snafu had been talking idly about a car, but then they’d spotted the house on a slightly drunken evening stroll, and all thoughts of spending money on anything else had been abandoned. They had both emptied their savings accounts for the place, and then emptied them beyond that with all the things needed for the repairs on it. Snafu had picked up extra shifts; was working six days a week plus overtime until they got the house functional again. Eugene had gotten a loan from his parents, which had led to some arguments between him and Snafu, but it had paid for the new boiler and the upstairs shower so that was that.

The tram grinds to a halt, and the press lessens slightly as a few people disembark. Eugene takes in a lungful of stale, hot air, trying to covertly swipe his sleeve over the sweat beading on his forehead without elbowing anybody in the face. The money worries him; leaves him lying awake at night next to Snafu’s sweet, sleeping body as his mind ticks away through figures and fees and interest. The chaos, the _boxes_ , worry him too, and it’d be so easy to get swallowed up with the worry if he was doing it alone. Every moment of his day is spent thinking about the task he and Snafu are working on at the moment, but it’s the two of them tackling it together and Eugene is sometimes so grateful for Snafu’s calm, solid presence that he gets misty eyed over it. They’re both worlds away from the kids they’d been when they’d moved in together fifteen years ago, even if Eugene still has his nerves and Snafu still has his temper. 

Eugene is so lost in his head that he almost misses his stop; pulling on the signal cord at the very last moment as he jolts from his reverie and recognises his surroundings. The tram stops, and Eugene battles his way through the rush hour crush before tumbling out into the street. It’s almost blessedly breezy after the inside of the tram, but Eugene doesn’t have time to bask in it; a glance at his watch tells him he’s five minutes late already, and so the morning is lost to staff meetings and fielding questions about the house until he’s ready to drop from the exhaustion of passing himself and Snafu off as roommates all day. 

The end of the day can’t come quick enough, and 5pm sees him packed in once again with the rush hour crowd on the tram; exhausted and almost lightheaded from the heat. He knows the back of his shirt must be transparent with sweat, and he curses the leisurely way the trams always roll along in New Orleans as the thing inches its way along to his stop. It’s near six by the time he stumbles in through the front door, tugging at the tie he’d managed to find that morning as he clatters his keys onto the table by the door.

“Snafu.” He calls, pulling his tie off and leaving it to drape over the hall stand. His shirt follows; pacing through to the kitchen in his undershirt as he follows the unmistakeable sound of Snafu _tinkering_ with something. 

Sure enough, he rounds the corner to the sight of Snafu laid flat on his back on the kitchen floor, fiddling with the pipes under the sink. He’s obviously fresh from work; still wearing that old oil-stained boiler suit of his, and when he sits up Eugene notices his face and hands are still dirty too, black with engine oil.

“Hey,” He grunts, wiping his hands on his front before taking the hand up that Eugene offers him. “I think I’ve cracked why the water pressure’s all fucked up.”

“What, and that stopped you from washing up?” Eugene asks, but kisses him hello all the same. “Take a break.”

Snafu shrugs, eyes already straying back to the open doors of the cabinet under the sink. He scrubs a dirty hand through his hair, pursing his lips. “Fifteen minutes, and I think I’ll have it.”

“Take a break.” Eugene repeats, and grabs two beers from the fridge and Snafu’s cigarettes from the side before leading the way out to the garden. Snafu follows after a moment of hesitation, stripping his boiler suit to the waist to reveal the sweat-stained singlet underneath with a sigh as he takes he takes his beer from Eugene.

“Too damn hot.” He murmurs, thoughtfully, and they take a seat on the rickety old metal chairs the previous owners had left behind. Eugene’s feet immediately find their place in Shelton’s lap, and he relaxes back into his seat as Shelton sets his beer aside and gets to work on the knotty laces of his shoes. “How was work?” 

Eugene groans, throwing a hand to his forehead as he slouches further in his seat. His eyes are fixed to the light above the patio door; turned on despite the light evening, and attracting a couple little moths. He watches them flutter uselessly against the bulb for a second as Snafu eases his shoes from his feet, fingers going easily to the places they hurt the most. “Long.” He mutters, the press of Snafu’s knuckle to the arch of his foot prompting him into talking. He groans again, flexing his foot in Snafu’s grip as he presses a particularly tender spot. “ _Hot._ Stressful.”

“Found ya tie?” 

Eugene rolls his eyes, shifting his gaze from the poor moths to the sky above them. “Not the one I wanted.” He mumbles, and Snafu snorts, his thumb pressing gently to the dip below Eugene’s ankle. His eyes close, the tension of the day bleeding from him under Snafu’s touch, under the relaxation of being able to sit outside and listen to the birds and the crickets sing. The garden needs a lot of work, and was more courtyard than garden in the way most homes in the French Quarter were, but having it at all was priceless on nights like this. Not a cloud in the sky; a lazy, warm evening, the scent of honeysuckle and cigarette smoke in the air, comforting in its familiarity. Wordlessly, Eugene extends his hand, and Snafu surrenders his cigarette to him with only a roll of his eyes. “How ‘bout you?” Eugene asks, watching as Snafu’s mouth curves in a smile, eyes on Eugene’s feet in his lap.

“I prefer the other tie too.” He says, and laughs when Eugene grumbles and kicks at him. He catches Eugene’s foot easily, grinning. “Work was work, boo. Nothin’ to make the front page.” There’s a streak of black across the bridge of his nose; grime from work or from under their sink, and Eugene wants to rub at it but finds the evening sun has melted him fast to the patio chair. He settles for taking a mouthful of beer, eyes on Snafu’s profile in the soft, golden sunlight as he reaches for his pack of smokes on the table and lights himself another to replace the one Eugene stole.

They sit in pleasant silence, listening to the sounds of the evening as it descends upon them. Their neighbour is listening to the radio loud enough to be heard over the garden wall, but it’s Ray Charles and Eugene knows Snafu has a soft spot for him, so he can’t be annoyed by it. It’s cosy, homely; a far sight different from the place they’d left behind them. Sure, there was a lot of nostalgia tied up in Snafu’s old apartment; it was the first place they’d kissed, had sex, the place they’d fallen for each other and fallen out with each other, had talked and cried and laughed. The place where they had rode out those odd, dragging, transitional years where the war had still loomed bigger and badder than ever before together, when and all Eugene and Snafu could do under its weight was _press on_. And they had, and they still do, but Eugene has noticed such a change in Snafu since before they’d even officially moved; since they’d laid their eyes on the house in all its faded glory. The broken gutters, the horrible shade of teal the storm shutters had been painted. To see Snafu’s face as he looked at it, Eugene could imagine he was looking at the most stately home in the country. 

“Are you happy?” He asks, quiet. Snafu’s hand curves over Eugene’s ankle, his eyes sliding to him even as a playful frown creases his brow.

“What d’you mean?” He asks, and Eugene doesn’t have to hear his answer to know it. It’s plain as day, as simple as looking at him. Despite the years that have passed since they’d met, Eugene doesn’t think he’s seen Snafu look so young. Pinched and thin and angry at twenty-four, and now Snafu is edging ever closer to forty and greying at the temples and looking younger than he ever has. Or perhaps younger isn’t the right way to describe it, Eugene thinks, watching as Snafu turns away, brings his cigarette to his mouth. Freer. More content. Less seized by the childhood and the youth and the war that had so haunted him. “You’re starin’.” He murmurs, eyes crinkling as he smiles, and Eugene feels so helplessly seized with love he feels twenty-one, again. Twenty-one and scared, terrified of his fellow mortar man just as he’d been terrified of the enemy soldiers, unsure whether the man had hated him or wanted to eat him whole. 

“You know what I mean.” Eugene says, and Snafu quirks his eyebrow at him. He knows better now, knows that love and hate are more closely intertwined than he once thought. 

“I’m happy.” Snafu says, and drains his beer, tapping the tops of Eugene’s feet. “But I’ll be happier once I get that damn leak sorted. C’mon, move.”

He stands, brushing stay flakes of rust and peeling paint from the backside of his overalls as he does so, and Eugene watches him for a moment longer, one foot still in the past. “Do you really gotta get the sink done tonight?” He asks, drawing his knees to his chest, heels precarious on the edge of old, rusted seat. Snafu pauses in the doorway, hands stuffed in his pockets as he throws Eugene a glance from under his lashes. 

“Yes.” He says, rocking back on his heels a little. The floor creaks under him, and then he grins. “Are you gonna pass me my tools or what?”

Eugene rolls his eyes, but unfolds himself from the chair all the same. “Well I know you won’t be able to fix it without my help.” He deadpans, knocking his shoulder to Snafu’s as he squeezes past him, not budging from his spot in the doorway. “C’mon, move then.”

“Yessir.” Snafu quips, patting Eugene on the ass as he passes, his voice thick with playful affection.

“You’re goddamn lucky it makes me so happy to see you into all this shit.” Eugene mutters, but means it. He can see in the soft curve of Snafu’s smile that he knows that too. It feels good to watch him get stuck back into something again, to see him occupied and challenged and happy. The differences in him are astounding, now Snafu finally has a place to call his own. 

Eugene cooks dinner a little while later, once the leak under the sink has been rectified and the water pressure does indeed improve. Snafu is practically glowing with satisfaction, heading off to take a much needed shower as Eugene turns pork chops over in the skillet. He returns smelling clean and fresh, all the oil scrubbed out from under his nails, curls heavy with water as he rubs at them with a towel.

“Pork chops?” He asks, hooking his chin on Eugene’s shoulder to peer at them. His hands snake around Eugene’s waist on reflex, and he leans backward into the touch with a hum. “Want me to peel potatoes?”

“Sure.” 

Snafu drops a kiss on Eugene’s cheek, and then breaks away to go dig through whichever mysteriously labelled box holds the potato peeler. 

They eat squashed together on the old loveseat that Snafu had insisted upon bringing from his old apartment. It was the same shade of dark brown as the hardwood floors beneath it, and probably just as old as them too. Worn and sagging and moth-eaten, Eugene had dubbed it ‘man’s first sofa’ a good number of years ago and the name had stuck. When it came to it, Snafu had had a hard time getting rid of anything from his old place, much less the couch. So it had moved too, a prewar relic just as they are, some fragment of the life they’d lived before this new place. The dining table had moved too, and is still stacked high with boxes so Snafu and Eugene eat their dinner from their laps, sunk low in the sofa as they listen to the wireless. The Vietnam War is the topic of the night, and every other night, and they both listen in subdued silence as Kennedy drones on.

_— are not going to withdraw…for us to withdraw would mean a collapse not only of South Vietnam, but —_

“Switch it over.” Eugene murmurs, quietly, and Snafu does; rising from his seat to fiddle with the dial until he finds a music station. 

“There we go.” He mutters, settling back into the sofa with a sigh as Eugene leans to set his plate on the ground. “Peter, Paul and Mary, what more could ya want.”

Eugene hums noncommittally, settling his feet in Snafu’s lap as he makes himself comfortable, resting his head back on the arm of the sofa as Snafu squeezes at his calf. The big overhead lights are off, as they have been all week since Snafu had tried to plug the coffee machine in and shorted the place. Thankfully they had plenty of matches to light the gas stove, and Snafu had gone out on a hasty candle-buying mission that meant their nights weren’t spent in darkness. The bar across the street practically lit the street enough to not need them, at least in their bedroom at the front of the house, but the back was quieter, and darker. Eugene liked it, and liked it even better lit by candlelight, even if Snafu complained and said it was too hard to read by. 

“I wanna get some more stuff unpacked tomorrow.” Eugene mumbles, eyes on the flickering play of light on the ceiling. The house is further from the main drag than their old place had been, which sometimes made Eugene feel a world away from the city. Just the sound of crickets, cicadas, the low murmur of the radio and the faint sound of voices from the bar down the street. It was making him sleepy, the near-silence; Eugene’s long, hot day weighing down in every atom of his body. “Wanna make this place feel more like a home.” He adds, humming again as Snafu’s thumb rubs slow circles on his calf, eyes closing under the touch. 

“You don’t think it feels like that already?” He asks, voice low. When Eugene opens his eyes, Snafu is watching him, eyes big and dark through the low light. The play of candlelight on his face transforms him molten bronze; his deep skin tone darkened further by his long hours working outside in the sun, by the dim shadows of the room. He looks so handsome that Eugene finds he’s near-frozen by it, all caught up in the face he knows so well but still manages to leave him breathless with attraction.

“Almost.” Eugene murmurs, pulling himself into a sitting position so he can cup Snafu’s cheek and draw him into a soft, deep kiss. When they part, he grins, pinching the cheek under his hand to make Snafu smile too. “Once I stop breakin’ my back on that damn mattress, that is.” 

Snafu’s grins, something playful and teasing in his eyes as he says, “You old man.” His tone is fond, and Eugene snorts, hand dropping to his lap even as he sways closer for another kiss.

“If I’m old,” He counters, nudging his nose to Snafu’s cheekbone as he kisses at his ear, “What does that make you?”

“Ancient.” Snafu mutters, grinning as he follows Eugene’s mouth, his fingers coming up to hold him in place so he can kiss him again, slow and sweet. “Far too be old to be buyin’ his first house, or sittin’ ‘round makin’ out on a school night.” He kisses Eugene again, leaned forward over his knees as they both try and navigate the squash of the loveseat. A faint breeze shifts the air of the room, coming through the open patio doors and making the candles gutter briefly before they flare back to full strength. Eugene lets Snafu coax him closer, kissing him deep for a moment longer before they separate, a smile already pulling at Snafu’s mouth as he touches his fingertips to Eugene’s mouth, eyes fond.

“It ain’t too late.” Eugene murmurs, patting Snafu on the cheek before unfolding himself from the clutch of the old sofa cushions. Snafu watches him go; elbows hooked over the arm of the couch as his eyes follow Eugene’s path to the sink, dumping off the dirty dishes to be washed the following morning. “Do you really think it is?”

Snafu shrugs one shoulder, pillowing his chin on his arm as he turns his gaze to the darkness beyond the patio doors. The breeze stirs the curtains, sending them drifting gauzily into the open room, the candles spluttering again. “Well if it ain’t too late it’s just on time.” He says, a frown on his face when he turns his attention back to Eugene, still stood at the kitchen counter, watching him. “Too much shit tied up in that old place.”

“Yeah,” Eugene murmurs, still feeling flushed pink from Snafu’s mouth on his. He knows what Snafu means, even if he isn’t the best with words. “Fresh start.” He adds, and Snafu nods, expression clearing. 

“Bed?” He suggests, because it’s ten p.m and they really are old men now; no more staying out until the small hours of the morning down Bourbon Street, or up all night smoking and talking. Work tomorrow, and then more work on the house, on and on until the weekend comes stretching out warm and sunny in front of them, full of nothing but a couple cold beers and the yard work Eugene has been planning on doing since he’d first put eyes on the mess that was their garden. Eugene shrugs, and then nods, and Snafu turns off the radio as he blows out the candles and locks the patio doors.

“Do you really feel like it’s a fresh start?” Eugene asks, as Snafu catches him around the waist, heavy affection in his gaze. He knows the answer before Snafu speaks, but it’s a knee jerk reaction to check he’s being completely honest, and one that Eugene has long since given up on shaking.

“I do.” Snafu says, pulling Eugene into his chest for a kiss as they make their slow way to bed. “There’s too much wrapped up in that old place. Feels like we’re gettin’ our shot at something normal, for once.” 

“Even though ’s a lotta hard work?”

Snafu grins, that old impish smile that transforms his face decades younger. “You know I like a challenge, boo.” 

Eugene snorts, and steps away from Snafu’s arms to start up the stairs to their so-called bed. “Don’t I know it.” He says, as the stairs creak under their weight.

————

The next couple weeks fly by in a flurry of activity; their days drawing out longer and longer as they find new things to do around the house. Eugene spends a whole weekend weeding the courtyard, working until his knees and back are sore, his face all pink with sunburn but the spaces between the flagstones are free of moss and weeds for what is probably the first time in years. Snafu comes down with a summer cold around this time, one that Eugene is sure is a direct result of him overworking himself, but Snafu insists had been passed from Eugene’s students onto him. It puts him out of commission for a day or so; as long as Eugene can convince him to take it easy, and then he’s back at his work with renewed vigour, despite his coughing. He triumphs over the grouchy old boiler that’s been spitting out alternately freezing and red hot water for weeks, which puts him in such a good mood that he finishes his work on the house early that day. He and Eugene spend the evening in bed, christening the new bed frame Eugene had taken it upon himself to buy as they fuck long and languid, late into the night. They resurface for food, and whiskey, before Snafu is hustling Eugene back upstairs for round three, and four, both of them slick with sweat and collapsed panting and twisted up in the sheets when midnight rolls around. 

“If you’re in such a good mood you can help me paint the shutters tomorrow.” Eugene mumbles, breathless, and Snafu makes a noise of disgust as he rolls over, kicking the sheets away from his feet.

“Not a chance in hell.” He says, but Eugene can hear the smile in his voice. “I’d break the boiler myself before you rope me into painting.”

Eugene ropes him into painting the next day; swapping the hideous shade of teal the storm shutters had been painted for something a little less gaudy. Snafu complains the whole time, and begs off early under the guise of making dinner. Eugene lets him, perfectly content in the calming, methodical act of painting, warmed by the evening sun and less anxious with every new task they get done. The house is beginning to take shape for him, now; later than it had for Snafu, who seemed over the moon to have a place at all. For Eugene it proves to be a slow creep; a growing love for the often maddening foibles of the old house. Hell, if Eugene could learn to love suddenly icy water while having his morning shower, he could learn to love pretty much everything. 

They’re settling in; breathing life into the house as more and more boxes become unpacked and it begins to feel less like any old house and more like _their_ home. The hideous old orange armchair that Snafu had picked up on the side of the road and grown ridiculously attached to, the big clunky armoire he said once had been in his family for years, and all his tchotchkes and strange little findings; vases and mismatched mugs, figurines that caught his fancy, thrifted artwork and a dozen dishes and bowls that Eugene was sure would be full up with crap in no time, just like in the old place. Keys, bits of jewellery, nuts and bolts and screws, the odd piece of candy and pocket change. The house is swelling around them, all full up with the things they’ve collected together over the years, though it’s only through the unpacking process that Eugene realises just how little _stuff_ he owns. Granted, it’s unfair to try and compare himself to Snafu; once a magpie, always a magpie, but with every box emptied Eugene finds himself more and more concerned about what _he_ is bringing to this new life of theirs.

He expresses this to Snafu, one sunlit morning when they’re sat at the back in commission dining table together. The paper sits in front of him, as untouched as his eggs and bacon that Snafu had made, and Eugene watches as Snafu chews slowly, thinking over Eugene’s words.

“Your books.” He says, finally, dropping his eyes back to his plate as he picks a piece of bacon up with his hands. “Right? They’re all yours, save a few.”

Eugene purses his lips, thinking. “I guess so.”

“I’m sure it’ll make you feel good to have the bookcase up and everythin’.” Snafu says, flicking his gaze up to meet Eugene’s eyes. Methodically, he tears a piece of bacon from the main strip, and pops it in his mouth. “’S basically the last of the boxes then, too.” He shrugs, and releases Eugene from the scrutiny of his gaze as he reaches for his coffee. “And if that don’t make you feel better, we can go pickin’ around for stuff _you_ like.”

“I ain’t a hoarder like you, Snaf.” Eugene mutters, just barely catching the smile that Snafu hides behind his coffee mug.

“Hey, you grow up without a lotta stuff and you spend your adulthood catching up.” He says, amused. “Don’t blame me, blame my folks.”

“I already do.” Eugene replies, and Snafu laughs. 

Joking aside, Eugene knows that Snafu is probably right. The two of them had been putting off unpacking all the books they had painstakingly moved from the old place to their new home, mainly because moving the huge bookcase they had was such a nightmare. The thing was massive; a huge, dark double shelved affair that the moving guys had left practically in the centre of the living room, and there it had stayed. 

Until now. Eugene decided to take it upon himself the next day; dragging all the boxed up books into the living room first, and then squaring up to the bookshelf to begin manhandling it over to where he wanted it. The living room was a long, airy space, bracketed by two huge fireplaces at either end, and with a great amount of sweating and heaving, Eugene managed to manoeuvre the bookcase in between them. He stood back, catching his breath as he sized it up. 

“Not bad.” He murmured, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead. Snafu was at work for the morning, and moving the thing would’ve been easier with his help but Snafu had been the capable one around the house all month; it was time for Eugene to do a little heavy lifting. 

He makes himself another cup of coffee, then takes a seat on the floor with the wireless turned over to the music station as he begins to sort through the boxes of books. It’s peaceful; a little relaxing alone time with The Beatles for company as Eugene sifts through his and Snafu’s expansive collection of books that they’d accumulated over the years. And Snafu was right; it did make him feel a little better, being able to see what he had poured himself into over the last fifteen years. His research, his studies; all the books from the thesis he’d written for his undergrad, and then his postgrad; books on birds and wildlife, on migratory patterns and diet, habitat. All the many paperbacks, his and Snafu’s favourites all well-thumbed and dogeared and read to hell. It’s only when he moves from organising them to putting them on the bookshelf does his fun grind to a halt, as he notices a huge hairline split running from the bottom of the shelf right to the very top. Lip caught between his teeth, Eugene pokes at it, testing it with his fingers, and his heart falls as it makes a cracking noise and the split widens.

“Oh, no.” He breathes, jerking his hand away from the wood, but the damage is already done. _Must’ve been broken during the move_ , he thinks, peering sadly at the clean crack in the backboard. His mood sours with the discovery of the damage; all the fun he’d been able to find in the task gone. Snafu had bought him the thing as a gift from an antiques store just a few months after Eugene had moved to New Orleans from Alabama; so homesick and unsure and untethered that the gift had made him cry. He vividly remembered the feeling; tears turning to laughter as he realised Snafu didn’t know how to get it up the stairs to his apartment, much less in through the front door. They’d been going through a rough patch, Eugene remembers. The both of them standing on their shaky newborn legs after the Marines had chewed them up and spit them back out, and all they had in the world was each other, or so it felt. That had been the main source of their problems, though they didn’t known it at the time, and Snafu’s odd, thoughtful gift had just been so _him_ and so welcome; offering up something to make his home _their_ home. 

Eugene had kept it and he’d loved it since, so to see it all splintered up the back like that now that they were finally in a place that was all theirs, where it should belong, was painful.

When Snafu arrives home an hour later, it’s to find Eugene piling all the books he had so meticulously sorted through back into their boxes. He’s still sat on the floor of the living room, his coffee half-drunk and cold by his side as he shoves boxes back off to the side, and he barely glances up as he hears the rattle of Snafu’s keys on the coffee table, and then his footsteps coming towards him.

“Ain’t we s’posed to be unpackin’, Genie?” He asks, squatting down next to Eugene with a grunt. “What’re you doin’?”

“Bookcase is broken.” Eugene says, shortly, glancing at Snafu to see his reaction. His face is grimy; fresh from work, fresh from sweating it out on the tram. He smells good, like sweat and oil and machinery, metallic and musky, and if Eugene was in a better mood he’d probably be leaning into the warm press of him right now, but. His mind returns to the bookcase, and he makes a sad noise as draws himself to his feet. “It’s all broke up the back. If I put any books away it’ll split more, look.”

He shows Snafu, who kisses his teeth as he tilts his head from side to side, sizing up the cracked backboard. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels as he delivers the verdict; “I can fix it no problem.” Eugene looks to him sharply, eyebrows raised, and Snafu nudges him with his elbow, smiling. “I’ll make it Sunday’s task over the goddamn painting, don’t worry.”

“It’s antique.” Eugene says, slowly, drawing his hand over his face as the upset washes over him again. He’s had a long week, a long _month_ , and suddenly it’s like this is the worst thing that could have ever happened to him. “It can’t just be fixed, it’s ruined.” 

Snafu glances at him then, smile fading as his brows pull together with worry. “Gene,” He murmurs, pulling him into his side with an arm around his shoulders as he leans conspiratorially close to whisper, “It’s barely antique.” 

“What?”

He shrugs, that smile returning to his face again as he meets Eugene’s eye. “I told you that ‘cos you were so sad I thought a regular old secondhand bookcase wouldn’t be enough.” He laughs, and squeezes Eugene. “’Specially after all the grand shit in your parents’ house.”

Eugene gapes at him, incredulous. “Really?” He can’t even muster it in himself to be annoyed; too relieved that the thing isn’t beyond repair. Besides, it’s such a twenty-something year old Snafu thing to do that it’s pretty endearing.

“Yup, really.” Snafu says, leaning in to plant a kiss on Eugene’s temple. “Which means I can fix it no problem.”

———-

Saturday is as bright and hot as it has been all week; the sun searing a brand into the nape of Eugene’s neck as he watches Snafu set up in the courtyard. He’s insisted on working on it outside, citing the paint fumes indoors as his eventual cause of death, and is sweating already under the sun; his singlet abandoned to one of the garden chairs as he grunts and curses his way through assembling the makeshift workbench that he insists will bring the bookcase up to his height. Eugene shields his eyes from the sun, taking a step back into the shadow the house throws as he says, “Looks a little low to me.”

“You want it fixed or not?” Snafu snaps, wiping his face with his forearm as he steps back to survey his set up. Eugene raises his eyebrows, turning to wander back into the relative coolness of the house as he hears Snafu curse again.

“I’ll make lemonade.” He calls over his shoulder, snorting to himself at the noise of frustration from Snafu, followed by the unmistakable sound of an object thrown in anger.

“Make it a beer!”

He makes it a beer, and brings the wireless outside to they can listen to the radio while they work. Eugene makes a poor attempt at pretending to do some gardening; doing little more than sitting around on the garden wall with his weeding gloves on, watching Snafu as the Ronettes croon away on the pop station Snafu had switched to. He finds himself mesmerised by the slow pull of Snafu’s muscles under his skin as he works away on the bookcase, the singleminded focus on his face that Eugene recognises well. That stubborn, impossible propensity towards throwing himself headfirst into a task has been a constant in all the years Eugene has known Snafu; man and boy. His odd compulsion to do and do and do and not resurface until the task felt done, but channeled into healthier things these days. 

“Fuck.” Snafu mutters, drawing Eugene from his ruminating as he sucks at his thumb from a rogue hammer blow. The motion has him glancing Eugene’s way, mouth dropping open on a wry smile as he catches Eugene in the act: sitting useless and without purpose, staring unabashedly at the sweat beading on Snafu’s chest, his arms. He points, and Eugene feels himself flush pink, the playful scrutiny of Snafu’s captivating gaze too much with him stripped to the waist like that; the sweat on his skin turning him molten bronze in the high noon sunlight. 

“I’m not your object.” He says, voice thick with amusement, and he cracks up when Eugene snorts, unable to hold back his grin. 

“Are you sure?” He asks, and Snafu laughs again, turning back to his task at hand. Eugene watches the play of muscles in his back as he sets the saw to wood again, and the air fills with the smell of sawdust as his muscles bunch, and release. 

Over the sound of sawing, Shelton bites back with, “Well I ain’t get a kept man.” It earns another laugh from Eugene; turning him loose to the inside of the house just to give his blush a chance to die down a little. He comes back out bearing two more beers, and feels just sundrunk and risky enough to kiss Snafu, a hand on his waist as Eugene draws him into his body.

“Yet.” He says, pressing the cold bottle to Snafu’s chest; kissing him again as he shivers. “You ain’t a kept man, _yet_.”

“Is that a promise, boo?” Snafu asks, eyes heavy lidded and sly as his gaze follows Eugene across the garden; watching him settle at the creaky little table and chairs there, beer and book in hand. He just shrugs, watching Snafu until he snorts, shaking his head before turning back to his task.

It’s nice, to be able to play around and flirt with Snafu in the privacy of their own home. Outside, wrapped up in the sun and the smell of the blooming honeysuckle that’s rooted all along the high, crumbling brick wall that surrounds their garden. Almost too good to be true, when Eugene looks back on where they had been when Snafu had gifted Eugene the very bookcase he’s cobbling back together as Eugene watches; nose in his book and cigarette in his mouth, slyly watching Snafu over the top of it. Even just the state of their relationship, let alone the state of them as individuals; so new and fresh and scary that it felt like a bruise, something not to be poked at too hard lest it reveal what lurks right below the surface. The both of them had been so haunted by the war that had brought them together that it felt impossible to draw away from it and not draw away from each other. Not to mention the homesickness on Eugene’s part, the adjusting to a brand new city and a brand new home, and in some ways, a brand new Snafu. 

“Quit starin’!” Snafu teases, then, and Eugene rolls his eyes at him before turning his gaze back to his book, even as his mind strays further into the past. It’s been his near permanent state of being for the past few months, ever since they had started the long, slow process of uprooting themselves. It had stirred up a lot of shit that Eugene didn’t often think about now that he and Snafu were adjusting, healing. The rocky start to the road they’d stepped on together. To look at Snafu now, it was difficult to reconcile the man he’d been and the man he’d grow into. Snafu outside of war had been a different creature that Eugene hadn’t known how to handle; cagey and difficult and so, so hurt under his hard shell. They’d barely known each other, and the years that followed were a slow process of learning themselves again, and learning each other anew. They had shifted; changed and grown, and Eugene can’t keep the happy bubble inside his chest contained much longer as he sets his book aside. If someone had told him of fifteen years ago that his life could be this; sitting out in the sun with the man he loved, older and greyer but happier than Eugene had ever thought possible for the two of them, he never would have believed a word of it. 

———

“If you don’t put _Tropic of Cancer_ front and centre I’ll break it again.”

“I will never understand your love for that book.” Eugene mumbles, but reaches up to slide it home all the same. Snafu grins, pressing his index finger to the spine so it lines up with the rest of the books they’ve spent the last twenty minutes or so unpacking. 

“You don’t remember that time you read it to me?” He asks, grin growing as Eugene throws him a nonplussed look. “When I came down with the flu that winter back in ’55.”

“I don’t.” Eugene says; the memory lost under every other time Snafu had gotten the winter flu. “You’re sickly, nothin’ stands out anymore.” He stacks a couple more books that Snafu passes him, making a noise of derision as he does so.

“Well I remember.” He says, sliding an arm around Eugene’s waist and pulling him close. “It was sweet of ya.”

“’S what I aim for.” Eugene mutters, distracted as he pokes at a few titles, extending his hand for Snafu to pass him another. “Snaf?” He glances to the side to find Snafu smiling at him, something tender in his gaze as he squeezes at Eugene’s hip.

“’S’all done.” He murmurs, and takes a few steps back, pulling Eugene along with him. He goes willingly; unable to resist much with the smell of Snafu’s sweat in his nose, his broad hand on his waist. “See?”

Eugene tears his eyes away, tilting his head to rest against Snafu’s as they stand together and take in their hard work. That big, worn old bookcase that had brought them together when they needed it the most, now sitting comfortable and whole in their new home. Eugene feels ridiculous for the emotion it gives rise to inside him, and presses a kiss to Snafu’s temple just to hide his face for a second.

“Thank you.” He murmurs, and trusts that Snafu knows he’s thanking him for more than just the fix.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! :~)


End file.
